Thursday: Although it's largely events in sleepy Espargal with which this blog concerns itself, it's events in the UK that have had us gripped this week. We have looked on in bemusement at dagger-wielding politicians knifing their rivals while the SS GB drifts towards the shoals. I murmured fervent thanks that I was not in a TV news control room, trying to decide which homicide to attend next.
But like it or hate it, we can't escape it. The pair of us are drawn inexorably to the news media for the latest snippet like moths to the flames. Brexit and its repercussions have simply dominated our lives.
We have found Britain's decision to leave the EU hard to accept, akin to an unexpected death in the family. As an Irish citizen I should not be directly affected; but as an Irish citizen married to an irate and distressed British citizen, I am. It's not so much any eventual effects of Brexit, nor even its implications for sterling that are troubling; it's the emotional shock, the sense of betrayal - like discovering that your partner is playing you false and with some vile knave to boot.
We have to remind ourselves of the fulfilling lives we lead - of our lovely home, gorgeous garden, enviable environment and (relatively) secure income. Yet somehow, these are things one comes to take for granted.
In-between times we (more I than she) have watched a group of second league Icelandic footballers humiliate mighty Albion and winced as Portugal inched through to the semi-finals by a whisker.
On the home front we still walk the dogs twice a day, still apply muti to Russ's exzema (much improved), still wage war on the weeds, still talk to the neighbours and still feed the waifs and strays. I have pumped out the fossa over Jones's grateful plants. Nelson and I have continued to remove the suckers and clean up around the trunks of our many trees.
When he and I were unable between us to fire up the chainsaw, I took it up to Helio's workshop in Benafim to seek expert advice. Helio informed me that I was flooding it by repeatedly trying to start it with the choke open - and showed me how to get around the problem. Five euros please!
I give thanks for individuals like Helio. Life would be much tougher without them. When a client arrives, he puts down whatever he's working on and attends to one's needs. Never mind that his workshop looks like a bomb site, with spare parts and bits of machinery clinging to the walls and clogging the floor.
Inevitably, such deals are settled in cash that the taxman is anxious to know about. From next year the Financas will have automatic access to all bank accounts as part of a campaign to clamp down on tax evasion. Equally he will be informed about any transfers offshore and any expenditure on expensive new vehicles, boats and the like.
My Saturday morning workers have virtually completed the walls at the entrance to our new circular driveway. I have several other projects in mind for them before the Algarve goes into hibernation under the simmering heat of August when even the cicadas tend to nod off.
These works are aimed at improving both looks and function and reducing the workload in years ahead. Jones is determined to show age two fingers- it's just a number she says; I am not quite as confident. She strolls along our rocky trails, hands clasped behind her, while I pick my cautious way, walking stick in hand.
In spite of my many labours, I have encountered a chorus of complaints from my waistband and have grown concerned to do something about them. This is especially over mid-summer as my beer consumption tends to rise with the temperature.
With temps already well into the 30s, the beer seems to ooze out of one almost as fast as it goes down. Aware of the calories involved, I've invested in a stock of low calorie alcohol-free beers. They're not what I'd drink for choice but they do offer an acceptable compromise between thirst-quenching and obesity.
The week's light relief has come from the Loule Sports venue where hundreds of young gymnasts and several thousand clappers-on gathered last weekend for a display. Jones and I went along at Natasha's suggestion to watch her son, Alex, in action. We thought we'd missed him but Natasha says that he was the youth performing on the trampoline in a mask. And he was brilliant.
She herself took part in a display of some kind of keep-fit dancing. The most impressive part of the event was to see the numbers of tiny tots already doing their thing - with a little help from bigger friends. Pre-teens were building human pyramids and teens were somersaulting and tumbling every which way. It was good to forget about Brexit for an hour.
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